Archibald Full Frontal, page 9
“Come on, slowcoach!” Archibald is urging through the closed door. “The bar will be dry by the time we get there. Writers drink like fish.”
“Well, that would make you a piranha,” I call out. I look the outfit over and am struck with sudden inspiration. I reach into the closet and pull out the stilettos from where they’ve sat since that night. Now I am ready for anything.
In the living room, Archibald surveys me critically. “Not bad at all … My God, where on earth did you get those shoes?” he gasps.
“What? You don’t think they work?” I ask, looking down at them.
“Work? Are you kidding? They do all the work, honey. Those are the best pair of come-shag-me shoes I have seen in a decade. I’m almost jealous.” He’s in high spirits all right. It’s his night. “In fact, forget driving; in those shoes you will probably kill us both. I am calling a cab.”
“Okay, Beelzebub,” I say, somehow uplifted. “Where is this party anyway?”
“It’s a local spot. You’ll like it. Used to be a millionaire’s house,” Archibald says.
When we pull up in front, I recognize it right away. The Convent. Of course. Downstairs the dining room has been cleared out and long tables laid out with ample food and drink. The space is packed with revellers in high-end Halloween gear — literary types, local money, local politicians, and a few television personalities, about whom Archibald whispers gossipy tidbits. Most are middle-aged, but I am used to that by now. Archibald introduces me to his editor, George, a tall wiry man with greyish hair, dressed as a knight; he looks either nervous or like he really needs a drink.
I glance around the room, recognizing some of the faces from Archibald’s set. I take a glass of champagne from a server and wade through the crowd.
“Hi. I don’t believe we’ve met.” A youngish guy, wearing oval-rimmed glasses, approaches. He is dressed in a cowboy outfit, complete with a sheriff’s badge.
“Am I under arrest?” I should at least try to have a good time. He chuckles humourlessly.
“Are you alone?” He has already had a drink or two.
“No. I mean, I came with Archibald Weeks.” His eyebrows shoot up, trying to figure that one out.
“I thought you were a writer. I’m Jason Fields. Maybe you’ve heard of my last book? The Psychosis of the Two Parent Family?”
A psychologist, great. “Maybe,” I lie. “Sounds … interesting. I have to just … run to the loo.” I press through the crowd and find the staircase to the dance floor upstairs. A band is playing Halloween-themed blues and rock. I go to the bar and order a Tequila Sunrise.
“I vant to suck your blood.” I turn around, ready to be irritated, but it’s Sam, dressed as the world’s most laid-back vampire in a high-necked cape, black jeans, and a T-shirt. He bares his fangs menacingly before popping them into his palm and tucking them into a pocket.
“Sam!” I yell, pleasantly surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Archibald gave me tickets. Or, more accurately, I won them in last week’s game.” Then I notice Dan, a friend of Sam’s I had met on campus, a computer science Ph.D. student. At 6'5", with wide shoulders and sandy brown hair, he looked more like a quarterback than a computer geek. Tonight, he is covered from head to toe in green paint over which he wears ripped jeans and a T-shirt. He would have made an intimidating Incredible Hulk if it weren’t for the grin on his face. It gives him an air of affability, like a Great Pyrenees waiting for a belly rub.
“Oh, look, you brought a date. Hi, Dan,” I say.
“Hey, Maggie.” Dan nods, still grinning.
“It’s a bit of a creepy crowd,” I say over the din of music.
“Yeah, it’s like Club Med for the underworld,” Sam adds, glancing around, and then back to me. “You look … um … different.”
“Dance, Maggie?” Dan asks.
“Sure.” I shrug. “As long as you catch me if I tip over.” On the dance floor, Dan demonstrates a true lack of rhythm and makes matters worse by stepping on me with one of his mammoth feet. But he is a nice guy, and the tequila makes everything seem pleasantly mellow, even pain.
We make our way to Sam, who is seated at a table chatting with a forty-something-year-old Catwoman who looks like it is feeding time and Sam is a raw piece of beef tenderloin. On impulse, I lean over and peck Sam on the cheek. “Hi, sweetie.” I plunk down on his knee, cross one leg over another and point the razor-sharp heel of my shoe in her direction. He looks momentarily confused; the cougar gives me a piercing stare and withdraws to sharpen her claws elsewhere. I slide off his knee.
“Thanks,” he says. “Those are some shoes.”
“I know,” I say, proud that I have managed to survive in them.
“Would you like to dance?” Sam nudges me, and I turn towards the voice. It’s the sheriff, now very drunk, with bloodshot eyes and no glasses.
“I’m taking a break. My feet are killing me.” I shrug, and he takes the opportunity to squeeze into a chair beside me. “On the other hand, why not?” I concede.
On the dance floor, he jives to a downbeat rendition of “People Are Strange.” As the song ends, I try to make my escape, but a tall Frankenstein takes hold of my arm. He mumbles something unintelligible through his mask and motions jerkily to the dance floor. I am too shocked to protest. We dance a slow dance during which he holds me in a vice grip, which barely gives me room to breathe. As the song ends, I pull away just in time to bump into the cowboy again, who is waiting in the middle of the dance floor. I am about to make a dash for it when Sam shows up.
“My turn,” he says to the cowboy psychologist, who backs away.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a little like the red flag in a bull ring. “I never knew these literary types were so aggressive. Next time, I’m coming as a panda.”
He laughs. His eyes are glassy. Another slow song comes on. We look around awkwardly as dancers couple off. Dan is chatting at the bar with a tiny Madonna. They look cutely comical together. The Bernese mountain dog and the toy poodle. Sam puts his hand on my shoulder lightly. I move in closer and stop. I suddenly remember our last dance together.
“Do you…” He takes a step back.
“Want a drink? I’d love one,” I finish, and we beat it off the dance floor.
We sit on the steps leading up to the third floor. I have taken one of my shoes off and am rubbing my foot gingerly. “I bet I’ll feel this tomorrow, but everything is pleasantly numb right now.”
“Comfortably numb, just like the song,” he says, slumping back and closing his eyes. We smoked a very small joint out back, and now I feel relaxed, without ambition and deeply sleepy, a bear on the eve of a long hibernation. Then I look up, or down, rather.
He’s there, standing on the landing below us, swathed in black robes, hair slicked back. Another vampire. I open my mouth to call his name, but my voice is stuck in my throat. Michael. Back from his trip. He hasn’t seen me. He makes his way down the stairs. I stand up, suddenly awake.
“See you in a bit.” I need to see if he’s real or a drug-induced fantasy. A mental trick or treat.
“Yep,” Sam says, still coasting.
He stands in a darkened corner of the room, talking to a woman, but he appears to be looking for something, scanning the room. I take a step forward and stop as I catch his eye. He looks me up and down, like the first night we met in the elevator, and then his eyes rest on my shoes. He raises an eyebrow and his lips turn up slightly. Without thinking, I leave the room. I hear him behind me, quick footsteps and velvet dragging against the floor. Then he is at my arm guiding me into a darkened corridor.
“I thought it was you,” I say, unable to prevent myself from being pleased.
“I flew in tonight. I thought I’d surprise you.”
“You knew I’d be here?”
“I have my spies.” He pulls me into a nearby doorway. His arms are around me, and his lips are warm against my neck and mouth. “Are you enjoying the party?”
“No. Let’s get out of here.” My voice quivers. It’s the drink and the weed.
“Where?”
“Wherever.”
“What? You’re not afraid of the Archibald police?”
“He’s probably passed out in a wine keg by now.”
“I know another way out.”
Outside, the air is cold and damp, a Vancouver autumn, perpetually moist. We walk along the back of the building; it is ensconced by trees, tucked in a deep blackness. The spongy dark bodies of the trees blot out the starlight. I let my hand trace the side of the building, its roughness guiding my fingers. He stops abruptly, pressing me against it. I shiver, suddenly afraid of my longing. He wraps his downy robe around me. I put my hands on either side of his face.
His hand traces the inseam of my stocking. His lips brush against mine. Familiar. I reach for his belt buckle, cold and metallic.
I feel him lift my skirt and yank at the clothing between us. He lifts me in a swift, impatient motion. I wrap my legs around him, taking in the smell of fallen pine, the bitterness of burnt fireworks in the distance, the sound of his breathing. The motion of our bodies becomes another cadence in the darkness, shifting, swaying beneath the trees. The bricks of the building bite into my back as he holds me, skin pressed into mine.
I am submerged miles beneath an ocean, covered in the silence of waves that buoy against me, squeezing my lungs, until I am gasping. I exhale long and hard, smacking my head against the wall in the process. I forget the boredom that had overwhelmed me earlier. He releases me, and my feet touch the squishy earth.
He nuzzles his face against my neck. “Happy Halloween.” We stand together, in the darkness, recovering. I shiver as the cold reaches me. And suddenly it is winter all around us.
“I think I have hair gel in my mouth,” he says, with a laugh. I laugh too and run a hand over my mushy finger waves.
Later, we lie in front of the fire in his living room. He seems to be sleeping. I turn over and look at him. He has the profile of a Petrarchan. In fact, I muse, his face would fit perfectly in Castiglione’s sixteenth-century court; I’d been reading The Book of the Courtier for class. But his mind? I knew him so little. I begin dressing quietly. He stretches and opens his eyes.
“Leaving so soon, little flapper?” he asks.
“It’s 3 a.m.”
“The witching hour. Better stay here. It’s safer.”
“No, it’s after the witching hour. In fact, I’m a whole year older.”
“What? It’s not your birthday?” He sits up, rubbing his eyes.
“Yep.” I am trying to roll up my stockings without much success.
“But I don’t have a gift … Hang on.” He gets up, suddenly animated. My eyes follow him. I can’t help wondering if he has a secret drawer filled with gifts for missed birthdays.
He returns from upstairs, holding up a tiny medallion that glints on a thin gold chain. It is his St. Christopher’s medal. I had admired it before. He wears it most days, tucked beneath his shirt.
“I’d like you to have it.”
“But…” I stammer. “I can’t take that.”
“I know it’s nothing fancy. I’ll make it up to you, though.”
“It’s yours,” I protest.
He smiles boyishly as he puts it over my head. A curl falls forward over his eye.
I look down at it, feeling like I have been given a promise ring. I hold it up to my nose; it smells of him, musky with a pleasant, tangy centre, like sun-warmed wood and forgotten lifetimes. “Thanks,” I say, and feel that strange place inside me stir. I know him so little. And yet well enough.
Downstairs, I slip into the apartment as quietly as possible. Archibald is nowhere to be seen. Thank God, I think immediately, and then hope that he isn’t passed out in an alley somewhere. Although he’d probably fit in perfectly with the alley cats.
I close the bedroom door, flick on the light. A large easel and stool stand in the corner of the room, fixed with a large pink bow.
A small note says simply, “Happy Birthday. Try this when you are finished with the sixteenth century. Archibald.”
Friends and Lovers
“So, how did you like your birthday present?” Sam asks. We are sitting in the campus cafeteria after class. He opens up his egg salad sandwich, frowns, and slathers it with extra mustard.
I dunk my chocolate chip cookie into my hot chocolate. “Yeah, I did. It was weird, actually. I had no idea he had noticed that I liked to sketch.” I was always drawing lately. I couldn’t help it.
“He may have had some help,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
“Well, I guess I should thank you, then.” I smile at him.
“Don’t mention it. What happened to you on Halloween? That’s the second time you’ve disappeared into thin air.”
“I didn’t ‘disappear.’ I left. I was completely wrecked, so I took a cab.” I feel a guilty pang in my stomach, or maybe it’s just all the chocolate. He wipes mustard from his chin with a paper napkin, and we stand up to go. The rain pelts us as we run between buildings to reach the campus bookstore.
Inside the store, we are met by delicious heat, warm and comforting. It is a large and posh store, more like a high-end library with comfortable seats for reading, nooks and alcoves for getting lost. I push off in one direction, while Sam goes to check on course materials at the order desk. I pause in the local fiction section and notice a shelf dedicated to Archibald Weeks. I pull out his latest publication, a collected work of short stories published before I began working for him called Murder Loves Darkness?, then put it back. Why read the man when I live with him? I pick up the latest Margaret Atwood and continue along to the large central atrium, where all the aisles connect like arteries to a heart. There is a large leather couch you can sink into. But when I arrive, I find the area crowded with people. In fact, I have never seen it so busy. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to figure out what the occasion is.
Standing at a podium, looking dry and spotlessly groomed, is Michael. I glance around, noticing the posters with his name and picture for the first time. In the poster, he stands in profile leaning against a door frame, away from the camera. Just enough of his face is revealed in the shot to make it enticing: his high brow, a slight, teasing smile. It is unsettling seeing him like that. I haven’t really dwelled on his public persona since I recognized him in the elevator that first night. He had kept that part of his life under wraps. And our anonymous relationship had thus far never intersected with my outside life.
There’s an outbreak of applause that fades reluctantly. He holds up a copy of his latest book, Mandarin Affair. I am too curious to move. He smiles at the crowd, confident. “I really appreciate you all coming out to hear me on such a miserable day. I’m glad to be back at my alma mater. Seeing so many familiar faces … brings back memories.” He scans the crowd. How familiar? I wonder. How many? I lean against a bookshelf, trying to be inconspicuous but wanting him to notice me at the same time. He opens the book and begins to read.
She crawled into the bathtub, stealthily, and hunkered down in the darkness. The porcelain was cold and hard against her skin. Only the sound of the faucet dripping and her shallow breathing punctured the stillness. The window, she knew, was locked tight and double plated, but not impenetrable, far from it. She had planned to wait until they were asleep and then slip from the apartment undetected.
This is the last time I sell myself, she thought as the night’s earlier events played through her mind. She had been distracted by an all too familiar self-loathing as she had carefully extricated herself from the tangled love nest. She had pulled herself free of motionless arms and limbs, all the while holding her breath. The tangy smell of sex hung in the air as she silently gathered her clothes off the bedroom floor. Keep it together. You’re almost there, she told herself. Almost.
He looks up briefly. Everyone sits very still. His eyes flicker over me and then back to the page and back to me again. He blinks. I grin slightly. He does not react. He looks down at the book again and resumes reading.
She had then located the safe concealed beneath the Buddha statue. It was exactly where she knew it would be, in the large glass atrium in the back of the house. She had entered the combination, expertly, and peered down into the safe’s depths. The black eye of the exquisite Mandarin Opal, valued at over six million dollars, gazed back tantalizingly. It was then that she felt seismic desire pulse through her core. Set in diamonds and over four inches in diameter, it was the colour of glistening black waves. Her heart throbbed in her chest. She had to have it. She paused briefly, trying to control her breath, as the Lama Ubitaday had taught her years before, then reached inside to claim it. The gem’s contours were smooth and cool inside her hand, but she had no doubt that it had a soul all its own. She tucked it inside her lace panties and made her way to the front door. Almost home free, she had allowed herself to think. Then she heard them, the unmistakable tempo of heavy footsteps in the hallway behind her.
“There you are.” Sam’s voice comes from behind me. I leap, turning towards him. So, this was the kind of alchemy he dabbled in, his secret to success: jewel thieves in bathtubs, sex laced with violence. It was shallow, self-evident, but annoyingly captivating. And it worked, even on this academic crowd; no one had gotten up to leave or so much as coughed in protest.
“Do you know he actually lives above you and Archie?” Sam asks as we board the bus for home. His bike is in the shop, a victim of a close encounter with a cat. The cat had been unscathed; the bike, not so much. Wet bodies press close together as students scramble for seats.
“I think so,” I say, vaguely. “He and Archibald aren’t the best of friends.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Sam grins. “Archie doesn’t exactly go in for competition, and the guy’s not bad if you like that kind of thing.”
